Last night, I saw the Arcade Fire perform for the sixth time in five and a half years. It was every bit as incredible as I imagined, and I plan to write a lengthy post on the experience soon. For now, here’s a slightly edited re-post of a Facebook note I wrote back in March (pre-this blog) about the Animal Collective/Danny Perez collaborative multimedia “show” at the Guggenheim.
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When I saw RJD2 at the Guggenheim in April 2006, the acoustics were *terrible.* It might have been because they were optimized for the soundboard recording and not for the show itself, but it was the only complaint I had about the event — you could barely hear at all from the top level; it was just too muddy and muffled and even where it was clear (at the bottom) it wasn’t especially loud. It’s a good set and I had a great time, but seriously, the sound in there was equatable to Central Park Summerstage, at best (which is pretty weird, if you think about it). Just poor, poor sound design — absolutely no consideration to the shape of the space, the actual acoustics of the room.
The opposite was the case here: this 36-channel thing was put to excellent use and I wish I understood better (i.e., at all) the physics of how it worked. The sound was very clear throughout and carried perfectly to the top of the room, and I guess all those channels allowed for extraordinarily crisp and distinct sounds being layered in full surround, with the speakers precisely directed such that the effect of each sound was not only in perfect harmony with its visual environment but its spatial-acoustic environment as well.
I’ve always felt Animal Collective was an “indoor band” because I feel like the sound waves they create actually NEED the confinement of an enclosure to bounce off of for full effect, so I was really curious about how they would handle the acoustics of such a weirdly shaped room. Much like the visual aspect of the performance, the sonic aspect made full use of the unique interior architecture, so the spectator was also immersed in a multi-dimensional soundscape. Though occasionally the music would fade out and people would clap, there weren’t really defined songs — the whole experience felt organic and continuous, and while the end did feel like “the end,” I believe the experience could theoretically feel equally complete no matter when one arrived or left, that time was sort of an arbitrary factor in the matter of experience — unlike, say, missing part of a typical concert or a movie or a play.
That sense of temporal suspension was pervasive, I thought — maybe this is the recent readings from my 20th century art history class talking, but the whole thing (the architecture of the room, the visual objects and projections, the music, and how it all interacted) reminded me of the advent of photography as an art form and how it was driven by this concept of capturing truth in a way painting never could because instead of portraying a sort of composite representation of something, a photograph literally captured a specific moment in time. At the Guggenheim last night, that concept was seized violently and turned on its head. Each moment simply existed for itself, and the moments flowed from one to the next in a most harmonious manner, despite the apparent lack of (chrono)logical structure or order.
I was talking to a friend recently about how although dance and music are generally naturally compatible forms of artistic expression, with interplay between the two being integral to the performance, Flamenco especially appeals to me because of the dance and music are essentially inseparable elements — the dance is part of the music, and the music expresses the dance. I don’t think I ever got to this part of the thought process in conversation, but although I’ve never seen a Merce Cunningham performance in person, I am familiar with his choreographic aesthetic, and I find it fascinating that he does the exact opposite of this — he has (awesome) musicians score original works for his performances, but he doesn’t choreograph *to the music* — he choreographs without having actually heard the music, so that the interplay between motion and sound in performance is new, fresh, unexpected. Rather than create a sort of synesthetic narrative expression, as most choreographers do, Cunningham toys with the idea of random chance — how that very chaos can come together so beautifully. It’s much like the experience of life… the nature of the universe.
What Animal Collective and Danny Perez accomplished at the Guggenheim somehow managed to capture both the intrinsic connection between the sonic and visual environments and chaotic beauty of disparate elements coming together in discrete and random moments to create something much greater than the sum of its parts.
